Crumbs of comfort after a night of despair

Imagine travelling across Europe only to see your side knocked out of the Champions league by some minnows. Then imagine bumping into the players by chance afterwards to tell them exactly what you thought of their display. Following Liverpool's ignominious ejection from Europe's top table at the lowly hands of Basle this month,
Joel Rookwood did just that.

Joel Rookwood

Wednesday 27 November 2002 04.50 EST
First published on Wednesday 27 November 2002 04.50 EST

Last night, three down by half-time to the Swiss nobodies FC Basle, I'd watched on in disbelief as Liverpool's heroic second-half comeback proved too little, too late.

We were dumped from the Champions League at the first group stage. Worse still, the whole sorry episode had been masterminded by Christian Gross! The shame, the shame!

Not even bagging the match ball punted at us by Jerzy Dudek could lift the misery last night. For this morning, as I stand in line at Liverpool airport, waiting to shuffle through passport control, those 45 minutes won't stop running through my mind.

As you'd expect, I'm in pain, and there's very little I can do. Until, that is, I'm shaken from my gloom by a rare and unexpected sight - the very same players that had dragged the good name of Liverpool FC through the mud only hours earlier, are now disembarking from their plane just yards away.

Here, on a plate, was an opportunity just too good to miss; a chance to sidle up to these Premiership prima donnas as they wait to collect their luggage and give them a mouthful. On behalf of Liverpool fans the world over, it was my duty to let them know that they'd disgraced us.

So, flanked by my two accomplices, we swiftly side-stepped security, disappeared from sight and waited for what seemed like an eternity for the players to arrive. Eventually, as they moved into view, we stepped amongst them; three bleary-eyed Scousers mingling with the cream of English football.

But instead of delivering both barrels, I'm ashamed to admit, we acted like a gaggle of teenage girls at a Gareth Gates gig.

We posed for a photograph with each and every one of those players. We consoled Steven Gerard over a dismal performance, and mocked Michael Owen for missing that penalty. Worse still, when we caught Sami Hyypia's eye, we called him a "legend". In our eyes he is, but that's not really the point.

Most embarrassingly, however, was our simpering chat with Gerard Houllier. We waxed lyrical about the game and our trip there and back. I asked if we'd win the UEFA Cup this year, and Gerard merely shrugged in that endearing Gallic way of his and laughed: "Maybe".

It was going well, we were getting on, but then disaster struck once again. After telling Gerard I loved him, I lost my head completely and pleaded with him to never leave Liverpool. Ever. I'm not proud.

The situation may have become even more sickening, had the ever-affable Phil Thompson not cried for somebody to "Get these scallies out of here!" A tricky manoeuvre when you*re standing in Liverpool airport, and a bit rich coming from Thommo, the scalliest scally in all of Scallyland.

But with that, we realised it was probably time to leave them alone before big Phil really lost that fiery temper of his.

Today, with the benefit of hindsight, maybe we should have acted with our heads and not hearts. Alas, meeting your heroes can do that to you.

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